rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the
condemned man, death.

Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation,
support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all
nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it
shielded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the
martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death. And though fate had
not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant
Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust,
trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and
the liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy.
The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across
the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The
bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous
face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are
coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart,
farewell!"

The inner door was opened--Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners
with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither
executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a
cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.